


that summer in new york

by ixofswords



Category: Secret History - Donna Tartt
Genre: Domestic (kinda), M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Suicidal Thoughts, but it be like that sometimes, romantic blowjobs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-08
Updated: 2018-10-16
Packaged: 2019-07-28 00:05:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16230080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ixofswords/pseuds/ixofswords
Summary: partially inspired by the end of love by florence + the machine, the stress of working and going to school amongst writing, and sadness, among other things; projecting them onto francis and richard.





	1. reaching in the dark

**Author's Note:**

> this is just setup for the second chapter which is gonna be my first attempt at smut for practice since i’m writing a sex scene in my book hhhhhg!! so it might be bad. also trying out some weird ways of writing from my ap english class.

 

Some hearts dig for normalcy that they can never have. Hands longing, heavy, heavy arms reaching to be something, God, please let me be no longer an abomination. Tears sift through skin and tongues, frantic, desiring a destination, a purpose.

Francis was laying in the bay window, disheveled. Fleeting escape felt like it was running out. Richard’s pockets had run dry, though he came home so early in the morning, eyes sunken, shoes scuffed from being stepped on by the restaurant’s patrons. He would smell of stale wine and cold steak, shower, and sleep for just moments before departing to a shift in the thrift shop, leaving Francis studying his books on the pillow in the window.

He had resolved to teach Latin to high schoolers. Now it was getting his teaching certification. Often he wondered if love was worth it.

“I could have been a little socialite. Do charity fundraisers, pretend to love my wife. Drink expensive liquor and import my smokes.”

Soon, his text fell to the floor, window flying open in time.

“Maybe both ways are fruitless. I hate myself either way.”

Soon, it was four. Wind blew in against curls settling on his face as tears streamed down simultaneously. It was a hot breeze, sending a rash of red across his already flustered visage. He placed his hands between the edges of the window, a knee sticking out into the sky. Slowly, words creeped through his lips to the world against him.

“This is the end of love.”

From around his neck he unhooked a gold pendant, bearing a miniscule R. Clutching it in his fingers, he let it stir against the air, hanging over the bay behind him. Effortlessly, it fell onto the cheap satin when he dropped it. As well, he untucked his stuffy tie, balancing his weight still against the frame. With much strain it came undone, meeting the same surface.

The telephone rang. So funny how these things work.

”Hello, is Richard Papen here? It’s the Times.”

“Um, he’s out, at, at the moment, but I can take down a, a message and have him call you back.

He scrambled for a stray piece of paper on his notes and his ballpoint pen.

“We’re calling to let Mr. Papen know that we’re accepting his submission The Secret History for a short story column. An editor will look over it, we’ll send it to Mr. Papen to check, and it’ll be published Sunday after next. Please have him call back as soon as possible.”

The words were spoken in a flurry. They were heard the same way. He scratched them down onto the paper in a frenzy, his brain trying to listen, write, and think all at once.

“He’ll be back this evening, should I have him call you then or tomorrow morning?”

“Morning would be better. Thank you.”

The line was dead, and what came from the other end was being puzzled together.

Published. He dropped the receiver onto the page, keeping it in place against the sky still blowing in. Then he put the pendant back on and shut the window, locking it in place with a click.

Soon it was three. Francis was sprawled on the couch, clothes wrinkled, with his book across his face. Slipping from his hand onto the table was a crumpled ball of paper. Richard staggered over, body so heavy, to retrieve it. A small rustle, and it was open.

Times called. Publishing story, Call back in morning.

He remembered it was now Saturday. No work at the shop in the morning. Slowly he undressed, not bothering to take a shower - he could do it in the morning - and collapsed against the bed, hardly even grasping the covers against him before falling asleep.


	2. consortium

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this probably isn't good its the first sex scene i've ever written don't hurt me pls

The morning was soft. It was verging on noon, with light pouring out between the blinds and flowing, cheap curtains above the radiator. Francis had awoken a little more than an hour previous, eaten some meager fruit bowl and showered, before returning to the window to read. It nearly evoked deja-vu but he was not miserable enough for the illusion to fully cast. The thrifted silk shirt he wore was old and worn, yet still soft in texture, and warmed under the sun from the glass. It felt like an embrace, gentle and light, as a delicate kiss on the hand. How idyllic it was to him, how it in some strange way it felt like home. Pages between his fingers felt as if they interlocked into place, so different than how the day before they dragged across the page. The book was still boring. Nevertheless, he was in it, yet also in his mind. He didn’t leave it until a click ran through the room, accompanied by turns and taps. Then, a voice. The sound of it was faint, a few words only made out, though it was not far away. It dripped like rain onto glass for a while; like television static. Pages in front of his eyes passed through vision without much comprehension, nor was he thinking much. Truly, zoned out.

Then a soft sibilation on his cheek.

“A thousand dollars. I guess they really loved it.” He instantly snapped out of his mind wandering. It sounded _so fake_.

“A whole thousand dollars? One thousand?” His visage turned to Richard’s gleaming expression, both of them wide-eyed. “That’s-that’s-how much you make in a-“ Richard quieted him with a kiss. “I know.”

Francis dropped his book to the floor, readily standing up in exclamation. “Oh, we should go somewhere! Out to eat, somewhere nice. Like before.” Though he downturned slightly in his reference, he looked at Richard with an excitement that had been extracted from them both. An excitement reminiscent of the past.

“We should save it,” Richard wrapped his arms around him, clasping them around the back of Francis’ waist. “There are better things to do here, anyway.”

“Like what, _mei mel_?”

“Hmm...how about...” He pulled them closer, lips resting centimeters away from his cheek, “This, _carē mi?_ ”

“You could do a little more," Francis whispered as he shivered in anticipation. "A little less seven and more twenty-one. I'll be Aurelius if you please." 

"Francis, can we make love just once without you bringing poetry into it?" He gave in, pressing a small kiss to his face, then smiled as he spoke, "I don't want to feel like I'm scanning meter." 

"How about you quiet me then?" Breathing a small laugh, Francis undid the buttons on Richard's trousers before sinking to his knees, landing with a soft thud before the seat of the bay window. "You're quite good at that." 

Richard lied back onto the seat of the window, bringing down his pants and boxers with him. He was already hard, looking into Francis' longing eyes that reflected in the sun coming in through the glass. Francis gazed back to him, a faint glimmer in his eyes as he took Richard into his mouth. Letting his lips drag across Richard's cock, he sucked his cheeks in, opening with a quiet pop. When he took him in again, he wrapped his tongue around the head, circling around lightly. With one hand, he danced his fingers over the shaft; barely-there touches bringing out Richard's sensitivity. A quick jolt shot through Richard, along with a small, pitchy moan that stopped in his throat. He ran a hand through his own hair and let his head fall back to the pane behind him, moving his other fingers to run through Francis' hair and hold his head. 

"Don't torture me like this,  _carē._ Just-just-oh my God, Francis!" Richard yelped, Francis taking him all the way to the back of his throat, gagging slightly on him. He let his mouth linger, pulling it off Richard's cock slowly. 

"Are you going to come already,  _dēlicate?"_ Francis chuckled, catching a breath. Saliva rolled down his chin, and he wiped it away on the flowing, open sleeve of his top. "You're so sensitive."

"Only with your damn tongue. I was never like this with any girl." 

"Let me finish you off, then, if I'm so good at it." 

He began a pattern of sucking the head as he stroked Richard's dick, interrupted by deep-throating him, much hastier than before. It only took a few repetitions, intermittent with Richard's moans and pulling harder on Francis' hair, before he came, spilling into his lover's mouth. Francis swallowed, returning his gaze to Richard's eyes, then licked his lips clean of him. 

"Well, that's a way to celebrate, huh?" Richard muttered. 

"We can keep the festivities going, ἔρως." He stood, legs wobbling, bracing himself against the seat of the window. Fumbling, his hands found a pack of cigarettes with a matchbook dangerously tucked inside. Richard studied him as he lit the cigarette to take a deep, soft inhale. The smoke spilled from his swollen lips like Richard had. He put the cigarette between Richard’s agape mouth, and bent down to whisper in his ear:

”Blow on that how I blew you, hm?”


End file.
